


Handcuffs & Alibis

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Awkwardness, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pete is 23 and Patrick is 15, Police, Sexual Tension, Teen Angst, mentions of weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:11:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Police AU.<br/>Officer Wentz doesn't know how to get closer to Patrick-good-boy-Stump, so he goes to extremes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handcuffs & Alibis

The first year of working in police is boring. So, when officer Pete Wentz gets an invitation to perform for high school students, he agrees enthusiastically. He likes to talk to people, and he’s good with words, and he likes when cute girls stare at him. Wentz’s friend, detective Hurley, always makes jokes that Pete is a ‘sex-symbol of month’; oh yes, Pete looks kind of like a beach life guard, with dark straightened hair, tanned skin and tattoos, but he hides them underneath his uniform shirt. By the way, Hurley has more tattoos on his body. He’s like a walking museum.

Right now, Wentz’s life has no action, just inspections of a crime scenes (mostly, after break-ins), and also he is present during the interrogations and works with different documents. Nothing interesting for students, actually.

But Pete can tell them some stories from his head, and — who knows — maybe, some of these nerds will make another episode of ‘Police Academy’ in the future.

So, preforming in front of a hundred of guys and girls is not a big deal and a good way to entertain himself. Officer Wentz works in a pretty quiet area, and he admits — it helps to save his 23-year-old ass from being in constant troubles. Even having heart-to-heart with kids is a better alternative.

The school auditorium feels like home; Wentz tells the real facts, funny moments and even gives a lecture about how cool to be a defender of the law, and that being a lawbreaker sucks. Wentz’s audience is really nice — girls smile at him, and guys laugh at his weird professional jokes. When the hour is over, the Principal, a middle-aged woman, beams at Pete, licking lipstick on her lips, and says they have a small surprise.

“Patrick, come here and give Mr. Wentz our gift, please,” she waves her hand to someone at the end of the auditorium.

Well, Pete thought that Patrick is a basketball player or a school jock, but it’s just a short guy in grey beanie, ripped jeans and khaki t-shirt. He climbs up on the stage and gives Pete a blue box with a big red bow.

“Don’t open it, just burn,” Patrick whispers as Pete tugs the ribbon.

“Why?” officer Wentz asks, opening the box and immediately bursting out in laughter.

When Pete pulls out of the box a pair of handcuffs with pink fur trim, Patrick just fakes a wide smile to the audience. Happy students clap their hands, Patrick tugs his beanie down to cover his eyes, and the Principal gasps.

“I told you buy the flowers!” she yells, and the kid in beanie winces at her voice.

“Sorry, but they didn’t sell flowers in a sex-shop,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “Also, it wasn’t my idea,” he adds, but only Pete can hear it.

“Don’t worry, it was a nice joke, I like it,” Pete tells to the Principal, smirks and resists the urge to shackle Patrick’s hand to his own.

“There are the keys in the box,” Patrick says sourly. It makes everything more awkward.

The Principal keeps glaring at him. The teen’s eyes are painfully sad, and even Pete realizes that this guy will not go home right after the classes today.

But Pete loves his job and speaking in public.

 

***

All the next week of classic routine and digging into papers, officer Wentz can’t get this kid out of his head. Pete thinks about him while he types a report or while he talks to his boss, and then detective Hurley appears just to say that Pete should use those amazing handcuffs as a part of his daily uniform. Ha-ha.

Besides, Wentz wants to know more about Patrick, so he checks the website of his school and finds only the basic information (Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, 15-year-old, pretty good grades, participant of a different music competitions), but _it’s not enough_.

In his free time Pete checks Patrick’s profiles in social networks — it’s almost nothing. He’s not an internet troll, he doesn’t rob banks, and he doesn’t post provocative photos with hot chicks; he is just a shy guy named Patrick Stump, who gave Pete pink handcuffs for some reason.

Then, Pete goes to Patrick’s school a few times and just stands behind the tree outside the building, without even trying to hide — he’s Chicago Police Officer, he keeps order, really. Also, Pete is a lucky guy, so he listens to the conversations and discovers some details: Patrick has a friend — Joe Trohman — and Joe buys a weed from a guy named Gabe, and Wentz doesn’t waste the time. He has a crazy idea how to get closer to Patrick and how to know about Trohman and Gabe’s business.

By the end of the week, Pete figures out that Patrick doesn’t smoke the weed. He doesn’t even touch it. He can’t even stand the smell of it; Patrick turns away and coughs when Joe smokes, standing next to him.

Officer Wentz pretends he doesn’t know these facts.

 

***

He waits under the lamppost. It’s 10:05 pm, and Pete is worried where the hell is Patrick. It’s too fucking late.

When he notices a familiar silhouette, he smiles to himself and blocks Patrick’s path; the teenager looks as always: baggy jeans and beanie, this time it’s black.

“Hello,” Pete snatches the short sleeve of Patrick’s AC/DC t-shirt.

“Hey… Hey, I remember you,” looking surprised, Patrick instinctively reaches his hand out for a handshake, but then he realizes it’s not the right time, because the officer leads him to a police car parked on the pavement nearby.

Pete forces him to bend over, so Patrick’s stomach presses to the cold metal of the hood, and  Wentz makes sure that the boy holds his hands behind his head. It’s a simple procedure, probably, Patrick saw it in movies, but he gasps anyway when Pete’s palm slides at his inner thighs.

“Mr. Wentz, I don’t…” Patrick mutters, voice hoarse.

“You can call me just Pete,” he blurts out, hearing indistinct ‘ohmygod’ from Patrick, who desperately tries to save his dignity in this situation.

“Um. I don’t want to,” he croaks out and snorts when officer keeps searching, even though he knows he can’t find what he has to find.

Wentz checks the teen’s pockets — Patrick is a good boy, of course, he doesn’t smoke. So, police officer finds just a cellphone in the front pocket of his jeans, a pack of gum and few candies; there are no reasons for arresting this guy, but there is a method, proven through centuries.

Gripping Patrick’s wrists with one hand, Pete rummages in the pocket of his police jacket. _Got it_.

“Do you know what’s this?” Pete brings up to Patrick’s nose a small cellophane bag with grey-green smelly content.

“Um, some shit you want to palm off on me?” Patrick suggests sarcastically. 

“It’s _yours_ ,” Pete insists, and the teen wriggles in his grasp, trying to turn away from the pack of weed.

“Nice. What’s next? Will you try to find a gun in my ass?” Patrick asks, disgust leaks between the words.

It’s time to teach him some respect, just in case. Patrick is not in his best position to fight back, and he just can’t do anything when rubber truncheon hits the small of his back. Pete belatedly tries to hold the kid up, but Patrick is already on the ground, lies on his side and clenches his teeth not to yell in pain. Come on, Wentz didn’t hit him really hard; just hard enough to beat a half of stupid bravado out of this sassy motherfucker. And it’s a good moment to snap these pink furry handcuffs on his wrists. Perfect.

Patrick doesn’t use his last chance to apologize and just groans, cursing Chicago Police and especially officer Wentz, when Pete drags him to a police car. But the teen visibly relaxes as the young man shoves him on the passenger seat instead of a back of the car; Pete buckles up the seat belt, and Patrick just blinks uncomprehendingly when Pete pats his shoulder before starting the engine.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, and Patrick glares at him like it’s the dumbest question ever.

“My guts are numb. I don’t think it’s okay,” Patrick gazes at his hands and grimaces. Apparently, he doesn’t like pink.

He doesn’t even ask where they are driving, and Pete feels it’s just not right.

“We head to the police station. I have to ask you some questions,” officer Wentz watches the road, but his detainee distracts him again.

“I hope you’ll get fired soon, _Pete_ ,” Patrick utters revengefully and wordlessly stares at the window the rest of their trip.

 

***

Fortunately, Patrick manages to keep his comments to himself as Pete greets Zach, the night watchman of a police station building; Pete takes the keys and pushes Patrick into a long corridor, leading him to the height scale. The teen is really short, just 5’4’’, but he stands on tiptoes and stubbornly reaches 5’6’’. Patrick frowns, when Pete takes a picture on his _phone,_ and opens his mouth to say another witty shit in Stump-style, but then he looks down at pink handcuffs and just sighs.

Interrogation room still looks creepy, even if young officer Wentz kind of used to it. Probably, for Patrick it seems like torture Chamber, but he actually prefers to die than to show his fear.

“Cameras?” Patrick inquires, squinting as Pete turns on dim ceiling lights.

“Not working right now,” Pete replies; the teen just gulps brokenly, looking at officer’s belt with a huge metal buckle.

“Losers,” huffing, Patrick flops down onto the chair beside the big wooden table; after the minute of thinking, Pete slumps onto the opposite chair.

Patrick gets uncomfortable under Wentz’s glance, and for a second he looks like he’s about to give up, but then he licks his chapped lips and winks at Pete. The boy doesn’t let him focus. He can’t sit calmly; he adjusts his beanie, tugs his t-shirt down, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and all of these signs are the signs of growing panic. According to Pete’s theory, it’s the best condition for giving as much honest answers as possible during the questioning.

“Let’s start with…” Wentz really tries to be a professional even if he hasn’t much experience of talking with teenagers in this way.

“Let’s start with: I hate this place,” Patrick responds darkly, brushing his reddish hair off his forehead.

“Do you want to know about your rights?” Pete renews attempts to distract Patrick from his ill-concealed hysteria.

“Do I have the right to go home right the fuck now?” the teen looks around the room anxiously.

“No.”

“Fine. Fuck you,” Patrick replies and defiantly pulls the chair away from the table.

Next, there are two hours when Patrick is having some kind of a nervous wreck. He doesn’t talk or move — he just places his shackled hands on the table and rests his head on his forearm. Pete watches how the teen fights against his useless anger; when the man comes closer, Patrick’s unsteady breathing locks inside his chest and turns into a harsh wheezing. Pete slightly pokes kid’s side with a rubber truncheon; it’s enough to make Patrick rise his hands up and show his empty palms.

“Don’t you dare to hit me again!” Patrick screams and jerks away, protecting himself, and almost falls off the chair. “S-sorry.”

Somewhat this boy doesn’t sound like ‘don’t hurt me, I’m a good kid’; he sounds more like ‘fuck off or I’ll shove this stick into your ass’. But Pete feels like his heart is bleeding anyway.  

“I’m not going to hurt you, Patrick. It was just a part of my job,” he explains apologetically.

“Tell this to my damaged kidneys,” Patrick snarls, and his voice cracks almost unnoticeably.

“Don’t be a cry baby,” Pete smirks in an encouraging tone.

“I’m not gonna cry! I just love my internal organs, is it a sin?” the teen snaps back.

Pete tells to himself it’s just a weird game he’d started, and really, he has to talk to Joe Trohman instead of Patrick Stump about this high school drug-dealing. But it’s hard not to notice — Patrick is here, because Pete _likes him_. So egoistic. The worst thing is: they both know that Patrick doesn’t sell the weed. Or maybe he just covers it very good with his cuteness. What if he has his own business like that dude from ‘Pineapple Express’? Bullshit.

“Who is Joe Trohman?” the question sounds a little too loud, and the man winces as he pronounces the name.

“Um, let me think… Porn-star? I don’t know?” Patrick scratches his chin and then tries to tear apart the chain between the bracelets but fails.

“I have a picture of you guys, kissing near the school…” Pete says slowly as Patrick literally chokes at the other side of the table.  

“W-what?!” Patrick bites his tongue and starts to cough.

With a friendly grin, Pete scrolls the gallery on his phone and shows Patrick a surprisingly good quality pic of two boys; the one in a grey hat and khaki t-shirt presses the other guy to the brick wall, gripping his short curly hair. And yeah, they are kissing; curly-haired boy shoved his hands into his friend’s jeans back pockets. They’re standing like this, their lips pressed together. Fucking piece of art, Pete is so proud of himself.

“…and I’m pretty sure he gave you _this_ ,” Pete’s finger points at the purple round spot on Patrick’s pale neck, which looks exactly like a hickey.

“Don’t be a jealous husband,” the teen grumbles, covering the mark with his palms.

“I found the weed in your pocket, and you’ll go to jail,” officer Wentz informs, recalling the subject.

“Cool, and I’ll say that you tried to rape me. And we’ll go to jail together.”

Patrick tiredly rubs his face and laughs. Because of those stupid handcuffs or it’s just another trick; Pete likes this game, no one gets hurt, and the officer hopes that his _partner_ accepted the rules.

“You’ll be very popular in prison. Pretty lips, pretty ass,” Pete watches Patrick’s reaction. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Patrick doesn’t seem impressed. “What if I like it?”

It’s hot, Wentz admits. So he crosses the room, he doesn’t know why, but his hand ends up lying on Patrick’s knee, and Patrick just mutters something like ‘abuse of authority’, but Pete can swear the boy doesn’t even try to stop it.

“Like this?” man’s lips press to teen’s ear as his hand carefully slides up at the inner thigh and a little higher; Patrick breathes out through his nose sharply, and Pete can feel his body heat, soaking through his t-shirt and jeans.

Patrick intends to get up, but Pete with both hands pushes him back onto the chair. The teen obeys and sits still, even though the adrenaline and excitement rush through his veins; he makes some melodic noises and low moans when officer Wentz kneels between his spread legs.

Patrick wraps his arms around Pete’s neck to make him bend over; the man lets him take the lead position, feeling a cold chain and a fur of handcuffs against his skin. He nuzzles to Patrick’s stomach, breathing in the smell of cheap cologne from the fabric of his t-shirt, but when the teen decides he’s making the rules, Pete just pulls away, seeing a flash of disappointment in Patrick’s eyes.

He puts his hands behind his head as Pete starts rubbing his hips again, this time with more serious intentions.

Older guy knows he plays dirty, but Patrick obviously enjoys the process, starting to thrust into Pete’s palm like it’s his own hand, and he’s at home, calm and safe right now. It doesn’t take too long to send Patrick to the edge — he’s just a teenager with raging hormones, probably, the lack of sex causes his harshness. It’s a simple reflex, Patrick craves to get off, and he doesn’t even hide it. It’s easy for Pete: button, then zipper of Patrick’s jeans, and finally his trembling fingers touch the waistband of Patrick’s underwear — grey shorts — and his right palm carefully sneaks inside while his left hand grips the boy’s thigh.

“Shit, faster,” Patrick exhales longingly, and it’s the sexiest thing Pete has ever heard in his life.

He even forgets that Patrick is too young, and keeping everything under the control for so long is hard for him; it all ends after a couple of intensive strokes, and Pete looks at Patrick shamefacedly, feeling like it’s his own fault. The teen just shrugs unabashedly and yawns, ignoring the fact Pete’s warm hand is still down his pants. And fuck — Pete can’t tear his eyes away — these handcuffs with pink fur trim look for him even better than before. Pete is dying to feel Patrick’s hands on his body right now; Patrick doesn’t show a great desire to do it, though. And Pete has no rights to force him.

He wants to wipe his sticky hand on Patrick’s jeans, but decides it would be rude. But he can _accidentally_ touch a table leg, and it kind of solves the half of the problem. Police officer reaches his clean hand to Patrick’s jaw — the kid doesn’t like to shave, so brutal. Huh, no. He doesn’t even have proper facial hair.

“I want to…” Pete clears his throat. “Um, you know, I want to lick this crap on your face,” the man’s index finger traces the soft thin trail of teen’s future sideburn.

“Are you fucking insane?” Patrick’s lips twist scornfully as he speaks.

He ducks his head and rubs his cheek where Pete’s finger was a second ago.

Without saying a word, the man just guides Patrick to the restroom so he could clean himself up; the images of horny young guy with awkward gesticulation and _those fucking handcuffs_ flood Pete’s mind all at once.  

He hopes he can be quiet in the stall while he deals with his own ‘teenage instincts’.

 

***

At 3:40 am Patrick gets visibly bored and spits out his chewing gum straight on the table.

“Man, there’s a trash can in the corner,” Pete winces, looking at the small pile of viscous yellow substance.

“I don’t care. I’m a criminal anyway,” Patrick shrugs, spits another piece of gum on the floor and puts his legs onto the table.

“Stop spreading your DNA everywhere!” officer Wentz yells.

“Aw, so nice,” Patrick glances at him innocently. “You don’t even let me have my privacy in the restroom.”

“I have to watch you in case if you’re planning to sneak out through the ventilation,” Pete chuckles.

“That’s why I’m so frustrated,” Patrick sighs, fidgeting on the chair uncomfortably. He even touches the front of his jeans and blushes slightly, realizing that the other man noticed it. Officer Wentz just rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, showing the fragment of his tattoo, and Patrick is about to shove his hand down his pants — so predictable.

Of course — Pete reads it in kid’s eyes and hears it in his intonation — he’s ready for another round, but he has too high self-esteem to ask for it. Instead, Patrick just asks for permission to use the restroom again, but ‘stop chasing me, there’s nothing to look at’. Nothing? Seriously?

Pete wants to take off the handcuffs along with Patrick’s clothes, and also he wants to write a fucking poem about this teen; usually officer Wentz has a notebook in the breast-pocket of his uniform jacket, but he forgot it in the car, so he has to find another time for love poetry. He can type some lyrics in his phone, though.

 

***

It’s 5:05 am, and Pete’s phone is almost out of battery.

Absolutely unfocused, Patrick leans his chest against the table; the teen groans and slaps himself, trying to push away the wave of drowsiness.

“Finally you’re calm,” Pete smirks, reaching his hands up above his head.

“I want to sleep, I’m really thirsty, and my stomach hurts,” Patrick recounts monotonically. “You don’t even feed me.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of it,” Pete gets up from his chair, walks around the room, closer to Patrick’s side, his steps sound too loud after the long silence.

“It’s okay. No one thinks about me. Only my mom does,” Patrick closes his eyes and rests his head on the table helplessly, holding his hands between his knees. “She thinks I’m with my non-existent girlfriend now.”

Pete stands behind and massages the boy’s neck, shoulders and back, feeling a-little-too-bony shoulder blades under Patrick’s t-shirt, like it’s the remains of his clipped wings.

“Patrick…” the man starts, but the train of thought floats away because of Patrick’s nearly-hysterical scream.

“No! Don’t start this again! I don’t know Joe, I don’t know ANYTHING!” Patrick barely catches his breath. “Let me go.”

“Patrick…”

“Stop it!” Patrick slams his fists against the table and right after that tries to cover his ears with his hands, but the handcuffs chain is too short, it doesn’t let him do this properly. Wentz’s pretty sure the kid is going to hit him as soon as he gets his wrists free.

It’s like he can see Patrick without his mask, his naked soul, and it hurts.

“Wanna drink some coffee?” Pete offers suddenly.

“With cyanide?” the teen regains his usual cockiness promptly, and officer Wentz mentally lets out a sigh of relief.

“Do you like cyanide?”

“Um, don’t you want to poison me?” Patrick raises his eyebrows skeptically, staring at the man; there are dark circles under the boy’s bloodshot eyes. Sleepless nights are doing nothing good, it’s an axiom.  

“I want to improve your mood,” Pete says, and the teen just rolls his eyes.

“So, take this shit off,” Patrick shakes his hands, and officer Wentz with a beaming smile searches for a small metal key in his pocket.

After getting his hands free, Patrick doesn’t punch him; the kid sighs, staring at the irritated skin on his wrists, and gives Pete a little grin as he takes the handcuffs back.

Later, in a tiny café nearby the police station, when Patrick is half-awake after the huge cup of coffee, Pete takes his hand. The boy doesn’t refuse, and the officer feels calluses on his a little sweaty palm. Pete thinks he has to drive him home, probably, his mother will scold him, because Patrick didn’t even ask for calling her. He hopes it’s all gonna be okay. The night takes it all, the dark is gone, and those things weren’t good ones, but at morning Pete doesn’t feel dirty. He feels guilty, and Patrick tugs his beanie to his eyebrows again and keeps biting his lips.

Suddenly, officer Wentz wants to apologize, but his mouth says something that certainly sounds good for Patrick.

“You are sexy when you are handcuffed.”

The teen laughs softly and proudly raises his head up, winking at Pete jokingly.

“I’m always sexy.”

**Author's Note:**

> really sorry about everything. also, english is not my 1st language.  
> \----  
> by the way, 'pineapple express' is one of my favorite movies.


End file.
